The Game of What is Truth
by GhostAmongAngels
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is a sickly man who daydreams to escape it all. All characters and locales belong to Steven Moffat, no infringement intended. TRIGGER WARNING: self inflicted abuse in various forms.
1. Chapter 1: Tell Me I'm Not Real

Chapter 1: Tell Me I'm Not Real

I hear monitors beeping. I open my eyes slowly, not liking the light.

"John?" I moan. "John?" A nurse like woman walks into my room.

"Mr. Holmes, you're awake. I'll go call your brother right away." She leaves and I lay there. I try to move my arms but I can't. I can't even move my head. I'm completely immobilized.

"John!" I shout. The nurse returns and does something to the right of me, out of my field of vision. I drift back to sleep or something like it.

The room is darker now.

"John?" I call again.

"Who's John?" Mycroft's voice. He is standing in front of my bed, his hand resting on his umbrella.

"Where is John?" I ask. I blink my eyes a few times and try to sit up again. I still can't.

"Oh don't try and move, the restraints stop that." I wriggle my wrists and find he's telling the truth. "So now who is this John?"

"John… he's… he's John Watson… my friend… he helps me… helps me solve cases. John?" I mumble and feel myself slipping.

"Ah the old 'consulting detective' story. Sherlock, you're not a detective, there is no one named Lestrade or Donovan or Anderson. And there is no one named John Watson either. You're in a mental hospital, the same place you've been all your life." I'm slipping too far. The room goes black.

I see him sitting in the living room having his morning tea. I walk out in just my robe because what's the point of clothing really. He stares at me but disregards it after a bit. I lay on the couch.

"Mr. Holmes it's time to take your medication." I try and turn away but I'm paralyzed.

"Where am I?" My voice sounds funny. The nurse sighs.

"You need to take your medication Mr. Holmes. It will help you get better."

"Where am I?" I say louder and my voice sounds stronger. The nurse just sighs and walks out of the room. A monitor beeps. I fall asleep.

_John._

"John." I moan out. The room is dark. Nighttime. "John…"

_John._


	2. Chapter 2: Hold On To Me

Chapter 2: Hold On To Me

"Sherlock can you focus on me?" I open my eyes wider. The doctor is at the foot of my bed in my line of vision. I groan.

"Where's John?" I ask. The doctor writes something in a notebook.

"Who's John?" he asks as though it is the most insignificant thing.

"Who's? Who's John?" I splutter. "He's… he's… he's everything!" I say exasperated. "He… he helps me solve cases and he blogs about it and… and… and he makes me eat… and sleep… and he… Where is John?" He continues writing. He's an older man with salt and pepper hair. I can't pick anything up from him, nothing seems obvious. They must have drugged me. I furrow my eyebrows.

"What are you giving me?" I hiss. He looks surprised, his eyebrows rising.

"Just your usual medication to stop the hallucinations Sherlock." I growl.

"Liar. I can't see anything."

"You can't see me? You're looking right at me." I shake my head angrily.

"No I can see you I just can't _see_ you. All I see is you, not… not anything… else." He nods.

"You can't deduce anything." He says as if he knows me. "Sherlock you're not a consulting detective. You don't have master deductive skills." I sigh.

"Stop lying." I moan. "Just let me go, let me find John. Please. He's probably worried."

"Is he your lover?" I sneer.

"Right, older male, everything's to do with sex ain't it?" He sighs and writes more in his notebook. I don't speak the rest of the time he's there although he badgers me with questions about my _hallucinations_. When he leaves I close my eyes and picture John. His short blond hair, the limp he had before, the way he held himself, how he would smile. Maybe lover wasn't far off. I sink into sleep again, that being the only thing I can do here.

"John!" I shout from the couch, he walks into the room.

"What?" he askes irritably.

"I asked for a pen an hour ago." He stares at me.

"I was out. I left nearly three hours ago. I told you." He huffs and tosses me a pen. I catch it and lean down to write my bright idea on a sheet of paper.


	3. Chapter 3: The Good Doctor

Chapter 3: The Good Doctor

"Mr. Holmes?" a woman taps my shoulder. "Mr. Holmes your brother is here to see you."

"Mycroft!" I bark. He saunters into the room and leans on his umbrella.

"Yes?" He says, disinterested.

"I want out of these restraints." I've given up asking where John is since I know they won't tell me.

"For that to happen you'll have to start voluntarily taking your medication and talking with the psychiatrist." He said and his words stung. Why was he playing this game? How could my own brother play into whatever scheme this was? I considered briefly that perhaps I was on drugs again and this was all a very bad hallucination. But John would have stopped me from starting them again. I pulled listlessly at the wrist restraints. Mycroft was staring me down.

"Fine." I said and the vitriol dripped from my lips. Mycroft nodded and motioned out the door. A doctor walked in and sat down. He wasn't old but he wasn't young either. Early thirties probably with salt and pepper hair already. I tried to deduce more but my brain still wasn't working. Mycroft closed the door as he walked out. I was alone with the doctor.

"Hello Sherlock." He said. I rolled my head towards him and searched for a name tag.

"Do you remember who I am?" he said. He had a notepad and a pen ready. He cocked his head like some demented dog. I rolled my head in a negative way.

"My name is Dr. Hague. Do you know how long you've been here?" I rolled my eyes.

"I don't even know where here is." The good doctor nodded and wrote that down.

"This is St. Bartholomew's, institute for the mentally handicapped." He said I nicely but I couldn't help but shoot back.

"So I'm insane? That's it? That's the story you're going to try and convince me? I'm insane? Is John in a room somewhere being told the same things? Is he insane too?" I huffed angrily.

"No Sherlock. You've been at St. Bart's for nearly thirteen years now. You aren't a consulting detective Sherlock. It's all in your head. That's why you need to take your medication." I tried to spit at him but it dribbled down my chin.

"Where. Is. John!" I shout. Dr. Hague looks at me with a confused expression.

"Who is John?" he asks me, as innocent as if he honestly doesn't know.

"John Watson! John Watson! Retired army doctor! My flat mate! My friend! My blogger!" My voice is embarrassingly high pitched but the ruse is getting to me. I want out, I want to be at 221B sitting in the living room with John.

"We live at 221B Baker Street above Mrs. Hudson! We work with Greg Lestrade to solve crimes!" I'm nearly whimpering. Afraid I'll cry I snap my mouth shut.

"Sherlock." Dr. Hague says quietly. "There is no John Watson. No 221B, no Mrs. Hudson or Greg Lestrade. It's all in your head Sherlock." I let myself cry.


	4. Chapter 4: Catching Smoke

Chapter 4: Catching Smoke

Hague leaves me alone for a few days. I "take" the medication and spit it out when they aren't looking. They take the restraints off but the door is always locked and the window barred. I could fit maybe my arm out it but that's the extent. Mycroft doesn't visit me. At night I sit by the door and listen to hear if John is calling out. I hear nothing. There is only silence and it is maddening. I tend to fall asleep in front of the door and end up having it hit me in the head when they check on me. Every 20 minutes they come look in. To make sure I haven't escaped? To make sure I haven't killed myself? I don't know. I get lonely. I am always lonely. When I fall asleep I dream of solving cases. A case a night. It takes minutes for me to deduce it and not much longer to catch the criminal. In the mornings the nurses check me over, give me the medication. They look down on me, as though I'm a parasite, as though I'm forcing them to care for me. They remind me a bit of Mrs. Hudson when she says she isn't my housekeeper.

Hague says Mrs. Hudson isn't real either and I don't know which hurts worse, that or when he says John isn't real. Hague stumbles on interesting territory one day.

"What are your feelings for John?" I pause because I don't know how to answer. I open my mouth, close it, open it again.

"He's my friend." I say finally. Hague nods and writes that down.

"Nothing more?" he asks in a suggestive way, not looking up from his notes. My brow furrows, my lips purse and my fists tighten.

"No." and it comes out more forceful that I want it to. Hague looks at me.

"Doesn't sound like it. You call out his name at night. In your hallucinations is he your lover?" I grit my teeth.

"No." I say and Hague drops it. I sit through the rest of our session not speaking. I don't know why I am upset. I don't know why I reacted so harshly. I think on this for the rest of the day and into the night when I can't sleep. I sit cross legged on my bed. I stretch my arms and something catches my eye. I turn on the light and look more closely at my arm. Thin, jagged lines run parallel to my wrists up and down both arms. _I was tortured? But these scars are long healed… and that would be an unusual form of torture. None I've ever heard of._ I turn off the light again and lie down. My fingers subconsciously move across the scars. This discovery irks me. It makes their story more believable. But I know what is true. John and Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade and Anderson, they are true. That is the truth. This is a lie here around me. I repeat this to myself for hours. My new mantra.

_John. Mrs. Hudson. Molly. Lestrade. Anderson. Sally. John. Mrs. Hudson. Molly. Lestrade. Anderson. Sally. John. Mrs. Hudson. Molly. Lestrade. Anderson. Sally. John. Mrs. Hudson. Molly. Lestrade. Anderson. Sally._

It lulls me to sleep.


	5. Chapter 5: History Books

Chapter 5: History Books

I make the mistake of asking Hague about the scars. He looks at me like I am a stray dog that no one really wants to take in but feels bad for.

"You did those to yourself. Most of them are from about a year ago. You had a break. Some were more recent when you stopped taking your medication. Do you honestly not remember?" I stay silent. Our session ends. I don't see Hague for eight days. No one speaks to me, Mycroft doesn't visit. I continue to spit my medication out. At night I look at the pills. There are dozens. They give me so many every day I can't believe anyone can tolerate them. What are they all for? Does this small blue one keep me weak so they can hold me here? Does this white one inhibit my brain so I can't find a way out of here? Why am I still here? What do they want? Why is Mycroft working for them?

When Hague finally does return he says he was on vacation. Mandatory for his profession. I scowl and answer his questions with one word each.

"Are you still having hallucinations?"

"No."

"Are you taking your medication?"

"Yes."

"Are you lying?"

"No." I bite my lip and dig my fingernails into my palms.

"Do you still believe John is real?"

"Yes." And it physically hurts to think what I just agreed to. Because I didn't say yes to John's existence. I said yes to the hallucination of him. I said yes to the lie that surrounds me. I curl up on myself. Hague asks if I am alright. I don't answer. I realize I'm crying, not only that but I'm doing it audibly. It's ugly crying, the kind that comes with sobs and racks my body. Out of the corner of my eye I see Hague looks nervous, he probably thinks I'm having another break. I wonder if I am too. I don't cry. I've never cried. At least not in my adult life. When Hague leaves I lie down on my bed in the fetal position. I hold out my arm. I look at the scars and wonder if what they are telling me is true. I fold my arms back around myself. I allow myself to cry because there's no one in the room anyways. Nurses come in and check on me. I can see the gears working in their heads about whether to restrain me or not. But it doesn't matter, I keep crying and eventually people stop bothering me. At some point the tears run out and I'm left whimpering. Because what if they're right? What if it's all true? What if John isn't real? I don't want to think it but look at the evidence. The scars, long healed now; Mycroft, why else would he hold me here; my own dreams, because the story continues at night in my head and why would it do that if it were real? I feel myself starting to drift asleep and force myself to stay awake. I don't want to slip into dreamland with these questions weighing on my mind. I hate it. I loathe it. Hague, all of it. I pinch myself. My arms, I do it over and over again. Little red welts covering my forearm but I reassure myself this is reality. I don't want to pinch myself anymore, I pull on my hair. I yank at the curls, clumps come out. I stare at them and feel better even though my scalp is on fire. I turn to the wall, get out of bed and walk over to the blank face. I slam my wrist against it. It hurts, but it's real, it's solid, it exists and so do I. I slam it again and it's so painful. A nurse checks on me, gasps, calls out and I am restrained again. They force drugs into me through and IV. I fall asleep and dream of John.


	6. Chapter 6: Bleeding

Chapter 6: Bleeding

_"Seems that I have been held, in some dreaming state." –Blinding by Florence + the Machine [Lyrics belong to Florence + the Machine, no infringement intended]_

I am bleeding, leaking blood, all the life giving juice squelching from between my fingers, from the base of my spine, my mouth. I am screaming. When my eyes open it is blinding, the light some angelic force that comes from every place, no concrete source. It reflects and illuminates the area around me, there is nothing but white. A darkness comes, it coalesces into a figure. It draws nearer, I clench my bleeding wrists around me and shield my body from them. A hand touches my shoulder.

_Sherlock._ I turn and rear up to meet the figure, my bloody body folding around them and I never want to let go.

"John." I sob. "They told me you weren't real, that you were a hallucination." I recognize my voice as being weak, quite the opposite of what John is used to and so I attribute his silence to that. I peer down at the figure, reassure myself that yes it is John. But his mouth is bound, sown shut with thick black thread. My blood saturates his shirt and I jerk away, embarrassed that I am leaking all over him. He does not move.

"John?" my voice is shaky and high pitched, a frightened child. "John are you alright." Blank eyes turn lazily to me and they are cold and dead. I shy away. This is not John.

"John." I sigh and the figure that is not my John crumples in on itself to become a pile of bloody bandages, nothing but a hallucination.

"John!" I wake up screaming, my upper body as high as I can raise it when my wrists are bound to the edges of the bed. My eyes must look half wild as the nurse at the foot of the bed seems terrified, her posture rigid and fearful. My breathing is heavy and my mind is weak. I fall back onto the bed and stare at the ceiling. The door opens and closes, the nurse leaving. It opens again.

"Are you alright Sherlock?" Hague asks. I shake my head and grit my teeth.

"Everything you said is true isn't it. This… this place and I… it's all true." It is not a question, it is a statement. Hague sits. I hear the chair scrape the linoleum. I close my eyes and feel the salty traitorous tears leak from the corners of my eyes.

"What happened?" Hague asks. He is cordial, I am almost disappointed.

"I had a dream." I pause and he waits patiently. "I was bleeding." I look down at my body but the white sheets show no evidence of blood. I clear my throat and continue.

"I was bleeding in a white room. The light was coming from everywhere. John came. And I hugged him and tried to talk to him. I was bleeding all over him. He wasn't responding and I saw that his mouth was sewn shut. I backed away and when his eyes finally looked at me they were dead. He collapsed and then there was just this pile of dirty bandages." I sigh.

"He didn't say anything to you?" Hague asks, interested. I shake my head.

"No. Nothing. He just looked at me… with those cold eyes. I didn't want him to be dead." I close my eyes again but snap them open when the image of the bandages flashes on my eyelids.

"Do you love John?" Hague asks.

"Yes." I answer without hesitation, without any semblance that I might be telling a lie. Because I'm not. I'm telling the truth and I'm happy about that. The truth is a rooting thing and I want to live in the truth.

"What do you love about him?" Hague asks and I scoff. "What?" he asks.

"There's so much. I mean, first of all he adored me. Thought I was brilliant and that was really nice. But then he understood me, and he put up with all the tedious things I did. And he could banter with me so easily. We just fit together so well." I sigh. "But he isn't real. And, in some ways, neither am I."

"The consulting detective isn't real. But you, Sherlock Holmes, are very real. And no John isn't real, but perhaps there is a man out there who will make you happy like he did." I flash to a memory, no, a hallucination. Of the first night John and I had dinner. When he said he was ok with me being gay and I snapped back that I knew it was ok. It had always been there, John had simply catalyzed it. I sigh.

"Perhaps there is." I say. "Perhaps there is."


	7. Chapter 7: Stitches

Chapter 7: Stitches

Sitting through daily sessions with Hague and trying to remember what is true and what isn't is like have a pick axe being shoved into my brain. Taking the medication they give me, even though there are more pills than can be counted, is exhausting. I look forward to the promised trip Hague says he will take me on.

"It is important you see for yourself the truth." He says.

When the day finally comes I am an eager child at Christmas. I am ready and bouncing on my toes. Hague says I need to try and reign myself in. Mycroft and two very large male nurses accompany us. I am taken away from the hospital in a large van with wide windows. I watch the world pass by and notice a street sign.

Baker ST.

"Hague?" I ask, turning to him.

"We'll start here." He tells the driver. The van pulls to the curb and the five of us step out. The nurses stand behind me, Mycroft and Hague in front. We walk down Baker ST and stop at 221. Mycroft knocks on the door. An elderly woman answers but she is not Mrs. Hudson.

"Yes?" she asks, her voice more aged than her face. She coughs and I smell cigarettes. Mycroft leans a little closer to her and whispers something. Her eyes flicker to me then back to Mycroft's face. I see his hand slip some money, the amount unknown, into her hand.

"Alright then." She moves away to let us in. We walk up the stairs to 221B. She unlocks the door.

"My daughter lives here. She's out for the day. Pardon the mess, my grandson gives her little time to tidy." The woman, just as Mrs. Hudson had, set about straightening things up. My eyes wander the walls. It is nothing like my hallucinations. The floor plan is entirely different, the wall paper and decorations too. When the woman comes back to us she purses her lips. Hague looks at me.

"Do you need more time?" I shake my head. We exit the building and I do not look back as we walk down the street.

The day progresses much the same. We go to the Police station where they assure me they have never heard of a Detective Inspector Lestrade, Donovan or even Anderson. I visit St. Barts where there is no Molly but there is an attractive young woman who tries vainly to flirt with me. I feign ignorance at the situation until she, frustrated, stops. When finally we have gone to every trigger spot Mycroft, Hague and I can think of we return to the Hospital. It is late and I curl up into my bed exhausted.

"Sherlock?" a voice calls. "Sherlock we're almost to Baskerville. You've got to wake up Sherlock." I groan and turn in my seat. I shoot up and I am in a car. John is driving. Fields pass us. John keeps his eyes to the road. I watch his hands grip the wheel, his legs work the pedals.

"You awake then?" he asks but I stay silent. I turn my body to face the road and wait for the dream to end.

"Sherlock?" a voice calls. I groan and turn in my bed, wishing the dream would end so I could return to reality. My heart aches to think John is not really calling out to me.

"Sherlock you've been sleeping all day, you've got to get up."

"You're not real John." I whisper.

"What?"

"You're not real." I say louder and the feeling is like stitches being ripped from flesh before the wound has healed.

"Sherlock you aren't dreaming now. It's Dr. Hague." I turn to face him and he's right. I run my hands over my face.

"You dreamt of that world last night?" He asks politely, taking his customary seat. I nod.

"You need to return to it when you are ready." He says. I look at him, confused.

"I thought you had wanted me out of it." My head spins.

"Yes but you need to say your goodbyes to that world otherwise it will keep resurfacing. You need to get out of it completely." I scoff.

"What do you want me to do? Shoot myself in my head when I go to sleep?" I am sarcastic but I consider it seriously.

"Not necessarily. You could simply move, or abandon your life. Shun John and the rest. Forgo your life as a detective." He is being so nice so I bite my tongue and don't tell him I'd rather have the bullet.


	8. Chapter 8: Invention

Chapter 8: Invention

My heart hurts. Not the literal one, the figurative one. The one that harbors John inside it like the impression of a body in a bed. He is nestled in there, and he is dying and I am just letting him fade. It is killing me but I let it happen.

After nearly a week of trying to forget John he is only more present in my mind. I tell Hague this and he sighs.

"I'm sorry Sherlock but you're going to have to go deeper. You need to immerse yourself fully, to the point where- like before –you can almost believe that world is real." I don't respond. I don't want to. If I put myself back there I'll want to stay. I'll want to keep living in the world where people need me to be brilliant… a world where John… my mind chokes on the word. But I sigh and nod. Hague says he's going to stop my medication for a while. He leaves.

The next few weeks are hell. The medicine leaving my system and my need for it battling each other. And on top of that my dreams are coming on strong. They are small ones, little things. Tea with John, a case, Lestrade. But it hurts because I wake up and I know that they are just dreams.

"Why can't I just stay?" I cry out, "why can't I stay there with him?" I weep until I fall asleep again. It is that dream that takes me.

"Sherlock. Honestly wake up, we've got a case. You'll like this one, kidnapping." It is John's voice, he is standing over me. I turn and look at him. I don't know if it's because it is a dream or because I know that soon I will not see him but I grab his arms and pull him down on top of me.

"Sherlock! What are you-" he begins but I cut him off with a kiss. When I pull away he says nothing but his eyes are wide in shock.

"I've been wanting to do that for a long time." I say. His eyebrows knit together and I feel his heart racing in his chest, pressed to mine.

"I… uh… Sherlock… I…" I stop him again with a kiss and I feel his body soften a bit. I don't stop, I can't. Because I know that soon he will be gone and this here is my last chance. I need to pull away for air. He gasps.

"What about the case?" is all he says.

"Screw the case. I've got you." That makes his eyebrows go up but then he smiles and willingly leans down to kiss me again. He shuffles to get comfortable, half on top of me, half on the bed. There are clothes and blankets between us but it doesn't matter. Doing anything more than this… I would never leave. So I don't push any further. We lay there watching the sun work its way past the window, watch the rain start in the afternoon, watch the darkness of night creep up until suddenly it is black and you didn't even notice. Our breathing is in sync, our hearts beat as one. Nothing is logical, nothing is rational… and nothing is real. I feel the wetness in my eyes. I know he is not real and yet I don't want him to see my crying so I blink it back and force myself to think only of his hand splayed on my chest, of his other hand tangled in the curls of my hair, of my hand curled beneath him and pressing into his back. He is so warm and tender and… John.

"John." I whisper.

"Mm?"

"I love you John Watson." I murmur. He sighs.

"I know you idiot." And that makes me laugh.

"Do you love me?" it is a stupid question but his answer is something I want. He arches his neck to look up at me.

"Ever since the day I met you." He turns his head back and stroked my chest. I smile. He is not real… but he loves me.


End file.
